Alexander was still mulling over Miss Farnham's fatuous remark about his age as he strolled the decks after supper. He knew his strong feelings about Miss Farnham would stun his former crewmates. More than one ship's officer and seaman claimed Alexander Murray was the most phlegmatic, abstemious and least passionate individual ever to serve in the Royal Navy.
"In the middle of a hurricane, you would find him calmly taking notes between patching up men hit by tackle or thrown to the deck by the force of the waves," Captain Thomas Doyle of the
Caeneus
had remarked at the farewell dinner for Alexander in Jamaica. "We were all praying like Jonah's heathen shipmates, and Murray could be down below, sleeping like Jonah, oblivious to it all. I know, because I have seen him do it,"
He hadn't thought much about how people viewed him during his service with the navy, but now with his changed circumstances he found himself doing more self-evaluation. The weather across the Atlantic had been so cold and miserable this past summer of 1816 that he stayed a year longer in the islands. But the letter tucked into the back of his journal called him home, and this voyage gave him time for introspection.
He paused when he heard his name mentioned as he stood in the shadows, the speakers unaware of him.
"Mr. Carr, when Dr. Murray fixes those grim eyes of his upon me, I feel I am standing in front of St. Peter awaiting admission to heaven! What makes him act so dour and disapproving? Does he never smile?"
Maybe Miss Farnham was not so foolish after all, Alexander thought, if she could assess his character so well based on her brief interaction with him.
"I have never seen Murray smile, Miss Farnham, but do not fret your pretty little head over that old stick," said the
Magpie
's mate. "And you should not worry about being allowed into heaven, for I vow, you are the veriest angel!" her young gallant swore.
Naturally, the very vapid Miss Farnham giggled at this bold declaration. It was a noise that had the exact effect of putting Alexander's teeth on edge.
He stepped out and observed the couple. Their heads were close together as they talked, and Miss Farnham's chaperone was nowhere in sight. Feeling every bit the elder they thought him, he cleared his throat.
Of course they jumped apart as though he'd caught them in Carr's bunk together. Carr mumbled something and hurried off, leaving poor Miss Farnham to face him, alone and unprotected.
She surprised him then. Instead of running after her swain, she only watched him go, then turned back to Alexander. He could swear he saw a rueful gleam of humor in her eye, but the light was poor in the evening dusk.
"Dr. Murray," she said in her light voice. "How do you find the weather this evening?"
He gave the chit points for daring to strike up a conversation with dour, judgmental Dr. Murray, even if it was only banal niceties regarding atmospheric conditions.
He took a step closer and she almost flinched back, but held her ground. He never suspected he had a propensity for trying to terrify young women, which just went to show one could learn something new about oneself every day.
"The weather, Miss Farnham, is warm. And wet. Just as it is most days in the tropics."
"La, Dr. Murray, I am aware of that." She reached up to pat the hair elaborately arranged over her shell-like ears. "I vow, this wet air makes my hair just curl and curl until I cannot do a thing with it!"
She stood there, a silly smile on her face, no doubt waiting for him to make a comment on her bountiful curls. Perhaps comparing them to buttercups or golden coins or sunshine or something equally nonsensical.
"It is well known, Miss Farnham, that wet air makes hair curl. You are no different from many other people in that regard," he said repressively.
She stared at him a moment, then those large eyes blinked. He couldn't help but notice her eyes were shielded by thick and dark lashes, a setting contributing to their attraction. To other men, certainly not to him. It took more than eyes like sapphire velvet to affect him.
"Why do you dislike me, Dr. Murray? You do not even know me."
If he felt a twinge of discomfort at being put on the spot by this chit, he repressed it. It was an honest question, so the least he could offer was an honest answer.
"I am not sure, Miss Farnham," he said thoughtfully. "I suppose it is because I spent most of my life surrounded by people who are useful. On a frigate boys as young as eight years old carry powder in the midst of battle. I have never known anyone whose existence was without purpose. You, however, seem to me not a very useful person."
Alexander regretted his honesty and his blunt words as soon as they left his mouth. It was not the girl's fault she didn't have two thoughts rattling about in her head. She could not help it, and at least she had her beauty--and wealth--to compensate for it.
"Useful," she said in a low voice. "Is that how you evaluate people, Doctor?"
He looked at her with greater interest. Perhaps she was not as dim as he thought.
"Yes, Miss Farnham, that is how I evaluate people. In the natural world everything serves a purpose and is useful, from the animals we hunt and the plants we harvest to the maggots eating dead flesh."
"But what of young ladies, Doctor? Must they be as useful as," she swallowed, "maggots?"
He stepped closer to her, intrigued now. She smelled of lavender, and the part of his brain connected to certain anatomical functions registered this and woke up. It had been a long time since he'd relaxed in port with hired companionship. Then he remembered young ladies were not in a class of women where one could dally without consequences, even young ladies of questionable reputation.
But he was still intrigued.
"I do not deal much with young ladies, Miss Farnham. I can tell you though all the women I do know have been, in one fashion or another, useful." He thought back to a certain young woman who ran off with an American and added, "Some are extremely useful, and competent in a crisis, and yes, that is how I judge people."
Her eyelashes lowered, shading her thoughts from him. She wore something ruffled and pink, of course, and he noted that women's gowns were now so high-waisted it brought their bosoms into pronounced prominence. She had a shawl of flowered silk wrapped about her against the evening breeze and the light wind whipped strands of hair out from under the frilly and completely non-utilitarian bit of lace atop her head.
"Dr. Murray! Such a harsh assessment of the ladies! La, sir, you would find yourself shunned from the most entertaining drawing rooms for such a puritanical outlook."
"Since it has never been my desire to be a success in entertaining, I will not fret over it, Miss Farnham."
She seemed to be mulling over his words, then her face brightened.
"I do have a useful skill, Dr. Murray."
He looked at her.
"I am quite talented at picking out just the right hat or gloves to complement an ensemble."
She smiled, waiting for his praise.
"Miss Farnham, I would hardly term that a useful skill."
"Oh, but I beg to differ, sir. Knowing which accessories make an outfit complete is what makes us civilized, and attractive to look upon."
He found his mouth opening to argue this and then shut it. What was the point? But now, with her mind engaged, she was prepared to defend her claim. She came closer then and lightly laid her lilac-gloved hand on his arm.
"What is life without some color, some entertainment, Doctor? Should our days only be filled with work and useful functions? What of..." She thought for a moment, and since he suspected this was a rare event, he did not interrupt her. "Butterflies! Butterflies spend their days flitting from flower to flower, Doctor. They live to entertain."
"You are mistaken, Miss Farnham. Butterflies are useful creatures, as are other members of the Lepidoptera family. Butterflies and moths spread pollen amongst plants. Even the ugliest and plainest moth can do that job, just as a butterfly does. They also make a meal for birds."
"My dear Dr. Murray! Do you see butterflies floating through a meadow on a summer morning and only think of them as food for larger creatures?"
He would have told her how long it had been since he'd seen a summer meadow, with or without butterflies adorning it, but he was too aware of the feel of her hand on his arm. She was not applying any pressure at all, but it drew his senses. That butterfly touch, even muted by her gloves and his coat, made him aware of how alien she truly was, how soft and clean and fragrant, so different from the men with whom he spent his days and his nights.
"Miss Daphne Farnham!"
Mrs. Cowper's grating voice broke his concentration, and he looked up from the soft lips of his interlocutor to see her chaperone bearing down on them like a ship of the line. Even in the near dark he saw how pale the older woman's face was. She was also short of breath, but given her size that was to be expected. One could not haul that much weight up and down between decks without strain.
"Mrs. Cowper, are you well?"
She looked at him disdainfully.
"I am well enough, Mr. Murray! I just need to sit down and drink my cordial to feel tip-top again. As for you, miss, you should not be out here. What would your father say?"
Bertha Cowper's jowly cheeks were aquiver with indignation, and small wisps of hair that had dared to escape her tightly pulled bun were sticking to the sweat pouring down her forehead. He started to speak again, but she was still going on.
"And if I need medical attention, I will wait until we are in England and I will consult a proper physician." She punctuated this by grabbing Miss Farnham by the arm in a grip that made Alexander wince for the young woman's sake, and pulled her charge behind her, still talking.
"You should not be speaking to the likes of Mr. Murray, Miss Farnham. He's only a ship's surgeon. You are in enough trouble, young lady, you do not need to be looking for more..."
"But the sailors call him doctor, Mrs. Cowper."
"They are common, and ignorant. You are above him in station and it will not help your reputation to be seen spending time with him or with the other riff-raff aboard this vessel!"
But then an odd thing happened. Even as she was being hauled away, Miss Farnham turned. She smiled at Alexander, a smile of such surpassing sweetness he was struck dumb by the gesture. He could see all too clearly now how even a reasonable man could lose his composure over a cloth-headed young lady.
Daphne stood outside the door to Dr. Murray's cabin, chewing on her lip. She did not want to knock on that door. A shiver ran down her spine as she pulled her wrapper tighter and shifted her weight from foot to foot. It was dank and dark in the narrow ship's corridor, and it was oppressive. She was tired of the smell of mildew and damp, tired of life in a boat that never stood still, tired of water that tasted like old sweat.
Most of all, she was tired of being judged. Everyone looked at her and found her wanting. The mate looked at her with speculation in his eyes, thinking her fast. The captain looked at her and saw her as a passenger likely to cause trouble. Mrs. Cowper looked at her and saw a girl who was no better than she ought to be, but whose father paid well for her to be transported home.
Dr. Murray looked at her with the most condemning visage of all. She could understand how Mr. Carr and the captain and Mrs. Cowper might judge her based on the stories that had spread like fever through Jamaica and England, but Dr. Murray found her very existence an affront.
When he looked at her with those changeable eyes of his, sometimes gold, sometimes a mossy green, it felt like he was peering deep into her soul, diagnosing her, and not liking what he found. She did not know what purges he would prescribe for her supposed moral ailments and intellectual shortcomings, but she knew the cure would not be pleasant.
He was the closest thing to a physician on this ship though, so there was nothing for it. She knocked on his cabin door, resisting the desire to knock and run.
The door opened while her hand was still half raised to knock again, and Dr. Murray peered out at her. He was in his shirtsleeves, and seeing him undressed startled her into silence. He always looked so formal, so proper. Now though he was half unbuttoned, and his silver touched hair was mussed, as if he'd been running his fingers through it. It made him look human for a change.
For a brief second, Dr. Murray looked as startled at seeing a woman in a wrapper standing outside his cabin as she was by his appearance, but then he composed himself.
"Miss Farnham?"
"It is Mrs. Cowper, Dr. Murray," Daphne said in a rush. "She went to the privy and has not returned, and when I knocked she did not answer."
He frowned at her words, but did not look surprised.
"One moment."
Daphne looked at the closed door, but before she could wonder he returned, a lantern in his hand. He led the way to the tiny room at the front of the ship, the direction the sailors called "forward," though Daphne had never figured out why they could not say "front" like regular people.
Following behind Dr. Murray gave Daphne a view that surprised her. Given Dr. Murray's years she would expect a belly or a spreading form beneath his conservatively cut coat. Instead, what she saw was solid but not padded. Broad shoulders and back, average height, and he seemed remarkably preserved for his age. His linen shirt was mended at the collar and at the seam behind his arm, but it was clean. She'd noticed that about the surgeon. He kept himself scrupulously clean, and unlike many of the other men aboard ship--or Mrs. Cowper--smelled mostly of soap, not stale sweat.
The hair that was not silvered in back was a warm russet and it curled at the nape of his neck. From the wet air, she thought, no different from others in that regard. Somehow she thought he'd be distressed if he knew his hair was out of place, normal though it might be.
They were at the privy now--"head," he absently corrected her--and Dr. Murray rapped sharply on the door.